


Amongst These Streets

by RegalMisfortune



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: I have never written steampunk before, I may have went a bit overboard in rambling endlessly about nothing here, Steampunk AU-ish, a bit more dialogue and description practice because I can do a lot of either but not together, but that might just be me seeing too much into it, magic vs science mentioned, someone convinced me to write this, sorry if this is garbage I tried, this is probably sort of light with darker themes in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 09:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3686721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RegalMisfortune/pseuds/RegalMisfortune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mage on the run from the authorities ducks into an abandoned storefront. Or what he thought was abandoned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amongst These Streets

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a conversation I had with a friend on Skype, which I ended up posting a bit of it on Tumblr and I turned around and wrote a piece from it. 
> 
> I apologize ahead of time for how crap this is. I wrote this in chunks throughout the day between being distracted by personal things (they just kept coming one right after the other). 
> 
> Also there will probably be a lot of errors because I didn't get this proofread. Please tell me if you find any. Thanks!

The city had a voice, visitors would say. It made small talk with the clanks of gears, whispered with the quiet hissing of steam. It sang with the humming of the engines from the airships as they went by, and whistled as the wind whipped through the canyons of stone and metal.

Yet that was a romanticized version of the city, the topside of the massive labyrinth that stretched its fabricated claws towards the heavens. It was the soft lie spoken with false laughs and smiles that didn’t quite reached the eyes, soft in its way that it entranced all who heard it. No one from the outside would hear the undertone, the hidden meanings and true depth of the perception of the city’s voice that was heard amongst the reaching spires amongst the clouds, not unless they ventured down past the painted face and whitened teeth of the topside and into the city’s backbone.

Here the voice loses its softer, pleasant lies, growing sharper and harsher with truth with each step deeper into the bowels of the city. Far from the open skies, the city’s voice crackles as light flickers in cracked and smoky glass of lamps that lined the walkways and groans as the metal and brick shifts and settles with each added layer on top of it. It coughs as dust and grime settles into its pores, only for a sigh of wind to upset and blow the dust lower into the depths.

It was in these lower layers of the city that a new voice picked up, past the deep rumbling of millions of people who went on about their day. It was nary a whisper of it in the heavenly reaches of the city, but grew louder with each descending level. It wasn’t much of a voice, more so of a topic, but its presence as its spoken with such acidity and upturned lips at every street corner and inside the hollow shells of walls where families dwelt that it became a part of the city, the tone of despise.

And so, in a city of clanking of gears and hissing of steamworks, a city that prides itself on its mechanical and scientific prowess and delved deep into trying to know everything about the world and how to harness it, there was one topic that brought fear and disgust to those who heard it and spoke of it through twisted lips:

“MAGIC!”

The shrill cry sliced through the morning market crowd as a ripple of dark fabric shot by over their heads. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary if they had been using a jetpack or a one-person hovercraft or even a glider, but this cloaked person was flying without any visible means at all, and bright eyes glowed gold under the shadow of the hood as they flew over the crowd. There was a mad scramble, yelling of “Catch him!” and “Someone call the authorities!” rang through the air. Hands shot out to grab at his ankles and cloak, but the flying person was quick to leave them grasping at air.

As soon as they broke through the large crowd, the person dropped in altitude, flying just centimeters off the metal and wooden walkways as they darted and twisted out of the main paths and into the narrow alleys and channels, leaving the all familiar whistles of the authorities in the kicked-up dust.

The rippling cloak zigzagged through the maze of streets and alleys, flying over garbage and scraps of discarded metal before banking sharply to the left, bumping a shoulder into the ajar door of an abandoned storefront with half-boarded windows and chipping paint. Gloved hands reached outward, quickly shutting the door with a click.

The floating being waited, hearing the many footfalls and whirring of the hunting party and their flying contraptions approach and run by the building, growing fainter and fainter as they carried on into a wild chase without realizing the trail had gone cold.

Shaking their head, the person raised their hands, pushing the hood off of wavy auburn locks and chasing the shadows away to reveal a round face of a young man. Golden eyes flashed brighter for a moment as the man waved a hand over his attire, the cloak melting and forming around him in a long frock adorned with brass buttons. It revealed the rest of his attire, consisting of knee-high boots and stainless trousers. He looked more of a middle-class man or higher; a more responsible man than that who just used magic to change his clothing and was still floating inches off the floor without aid of steam or wind.

Magic was unwelcomed in this city- unnatural, illogical, they claimed. Dangerous. People naturally feared what they could not understand, and with magic being without strict guidelines of elements and process like science and not readily useable for all who seek to harness it for themselves, people did not want to understand it.

It was a strange thing, magic was. Even for a magic-user like himself, the man in the long coat found it hard to completely understand it. But then again, magic wasn’t to be understood, not fully at least. It was alive, in a way, present in every person and every hum of a machine, yet not just anyone could reach out and grasp it, to spin the colorful threads and weave an ask out of it and for it to comply fully to what it was asked to do. It takes time, it takes practice, and it takes a certain understanding of self to utilize the magic inside.

However, the drawback was not only understanding that it was there inside each and every person, coiled up and forgotten by most, but that there had to be enough of it. Magic was a wild thing, and if there wasn’t enough unbounded tendrils to reach out and help weave what was outside, there was no way any magic in the environment was going to obey. It would be like a baby poking a bear, and there were many outcomes to that; most not pleasant.

But then there were those who had too much, lashing out at random just to release the pent-up energy. It was especially wild for untrained magicians when they were under high emotion, where their magic will whip out at anyone and anything that it deems a threat. Considering that nine times out of ten the signs of wild magic begins between the ages of seven and fifteen… it is quite a recipe for disaster.

Yet it wasn’t the almighty destroyer of worlds that the politicians and the law enforcement claim it to be. True that there are mages who learn and develop their power, delving into the trickier, darker areas such as blood magic to fuel their thirst for power, but not all were planning on growing so powerful and overthrowing the government and kill everyone who stands in their way, or kidnap children from their beds to sacrifice them to “gods”, the word often spat out like a rancid piece of fruit.

Speaking of fruit, the corners of the auburn haired man’s lips quirked upward, his golden eyes now settling to a dull glow as he retained his idle floating turning towards the door he came from. He sure hoped those kids trying to steal from one of the food stands got all what they wanted while the merchant and every other responsible adult was distracted by his flight display. He will get it later from one of the others for being reckless and stupid for his blatant use of magic in the middle of public eyes, but he had a soft spot for the orphaned children who lurked about the dark shadows of the lower levels of the city, doing their best to scrape by, especially when they were that young. They didn’t have the prejudices engraved into their beings yet, and they were always eager to give a bit of gossip or information for food, clothes, or money. He had found and rescued many a child with their magic just starting to rear its wild head from claws of the authorities and into the hidden enclave the magicians had managed to take refuge and ward off from prying eyes. Not all of the mages lived there permanently, but it was shelter, a place to practice freely without the bitter scorn of the society around them.

Turning his attention away from the door, the floating man gazed about the room he had taken refuge in, smartly deciding to wait just a bit longer in case there were any lagging members of the hunting party.

The room was very cluttered, mountains of worn, mouse-chewed crates stacked high. Some were spilling twisted bits of pipe and scorched scrap metal onto the floor. The crates made a hap-hazard path through the room, going to another doorway that was dark past the threshold. There were some half-built contraptions; parts of a jetpack strewn about a table littered with loose screws and hand tools. There pieces of metal welded together, forming shapes of exotic birds and insects that hang from the exposed rafters. Someone’s hobby, perhaps, at one point in time before the place was deserted.

He floated closer, reaching a gloved hand out to tap the metallic wing of a dragonfly, watching it gently turn in the dusty rays of light that peeked through the cracks and holes of the boarded windows. They were nicely done, whoever made them.

There was a slight scuffle behind him, but he brushed it off as a mouse or a rat, scurrying to find food in a shop full of metal and parts. Yet mice and rats don’t break the silent, dusty air with words.

“How are you doing that without a jetpack?”

The man snapped his head around, golden eyes flickering brightly in surprise as he pushed himself away from the scrap metal sculpture. Yet in his haste, he forgot about the mountains of crates behind him, and it only took his back bumping hard into one of the sharp wooden edges to be reminded of the fact. By then it was too late, and he found himself slamming hard into the floor as several crates toppled on top of him. Cascading metal pieces and wood screeched and clattered in his ears, the weight knocking any breath out of his chest. He only had the chance to catch a glimpse of a shadow in the darkened doorway leading into the second room before something assuredly heavy decided to greet the back of his head.

Dust tickled the back of his throat as he coughed, wincing as something dug a sharp corner into his spine. His ears were ringing and his head felt like he drank one too many of homemade brew; throbbing and disoriented. He could hear metal scraping and shifting as the ringing in his ears slowly subsided, frantic scuffling and inaudible muttering.

A piece of crate was moved, causing the pale light to agitate his eyes. He blinked, squinting at the light as a soft groan escaped his lips. Gods that made his pounding headache even worse.

He was saved when a shadow moved over him, successfully blocking the pale light and easing the pain that was stabbing behind his eyes.  
“Are you okay?! No, no of course not! What a stupid question to ask someone who just had a bunch of junk fall on him!”

He blinked, trying to chase the dust out of his eyes as he squinted upward towards the speaker. Through the frantic shifting and removal of the weight on his back, the mage had time to focus on the person above him.

He was a young man, perhaps the same age if not younger than he was. It was hard to determine what color his hair or his true complexion as his flesh seemed to be covered in a fine layer of oil, grease, and dust. He had a thin face, cheekbones jutting sharply from under panicked azure eyes. His clothes were also in a state of disarray, stained and tattered to a point where he wasn’t even sure what the original color was. His trousers were also in a sorry state, and he didn’t even have to look at his footwear to know that they were held together by mere willpower alone.

“Apologies. Didn’t know anyone was living here,” the auburn-haired man managed to wheeze out, stifling a cough as he inhaled more grime from the floor. It was obvious from the state of this place that the man didn’t exactly own the old storefront, not with that state of attire, but the man had made himself at home nevertheless. Squatters were common in the lower districts of the city, especially in one of the far offshoots of the main channel such as this. The authorities did go around every once in a while to chase them out if they couldn’t pay the taxes, refurbished the place and sold it to the highest bidder as profit for the city, but there were always places that were missed.

Still, it wasn’t the mage’s place to tell this man where he was and wasn’t supposed to live. Here was better than living out in the filth of the streets.

The squatter let out a sound crossed between a huffed laugh and a sigh, shaking his head as he moved more bits of crate and metal off him. “That isn’t important right now. What is important is getting you from being crushed. Can you move?”

The man blinked his golden eyes before testing out his range of motion, managing to save one arm from the clutches of the metal scraps. That seemed to be enough for the squatter, who took hold of his arm and pulled.

The mage hissed at the pain the tugging of his muscles brought, but the rest of his body did become free of its entanglement of the scrap pile. He tried to gain his footing, only to have his arm looped over the squatter’s bony shoulders and half carried, half dragged toward a wall uncovered by crates or clutter.

“Sit,” the squatter commanded, setting him down on the floor.

“I am fine,” the mage began, only to have warm fingers take hold of either side of his face. The touch stopped him mid-word, golden eyes widening once more in surprise. The squatter seemed unaffected, his brow creased with worry as he gently tilted the mage’s head, peering intently into his eyes before examining the rest of his face and head for injuries.

“No concussion, that’s good,” he murmured under his breath. “Nothing broken?”

“Not that I know of,” the mage answered slowly. “A few bruises and scrapes but otherwise I’m fine, promise!” He gave the man a lopsided grin, hoping it would disarm that serious look off his face. It made him look far older than he was.

The smile seemed to do the trick as the squatter’s face softened, erasing the age that the previous worry and seriousness painted. “What are you doing here?” he asked, sitting down on his heels as he remained kneeling before the mage. He didn’t sound angry of the man’s intrusion into his home, instead curious as to his purpose. His azure eyes swept over the mage again, this time not looking for injuries but taking in the now dusty frock. “You seem to be several levels lower than you ought to be.”

“And you look like you’re several levels higher than you should be,” the mage quipped back, but his tone held no spite in it.

Still, the scrawny man flushed, or at least the grime on his cheeks seemed to darken as he awkwardly ran thin fingers through his hair, raining soot and grit onto his shoulders. Apparently the mage hit the nail on the head for this one.

He didn’t press further on the subject, merely smiling as he straightened himself out, offering a hand out. “The name’s Ridge.”

The squatter seemed a bit taken aback, but his warm, too thin fingers wrapped around the mage’s gloved hand. “Xephos.”

There was a silent agreement past between the two, to not question further on their reasons why they were seemingly out of their districts as they shook hands, golden eyes meeting deep blue.

“So how did you float before?” Xephos questioned, visibly perking up as the memory came back to him. He settled down beside the mage, leaning his back against the wall but keeping his shoulders slouched.

Ridge decided to throw caution to the wind. He was usually hesitant in revealing the truth of his magic prowess to near strangers, but this man did not hold a single glint of suspicion in his azure orbs. So Ridge told him, the simple one word beginning with ‘M’, and waited.

The azure eyes before him did not harden, nor did his face morph into the familiar scowl. Instead the eyes seemed to light up as they widened, catching the pale fingers of light creeping through the cracks in the boarded windows, filled with overwhelming curiosity. “Really? That’s amazing!” The eyes swept over him again, as if trying to see something he didn’t notice the last time he checked. “Where does it come from? How does it work? Can you do it all the time or do you have to concentrate? Wha-“

Xephos cut himself short on his tangent, the flesh under the grime on his cheeks darkening as he looked away, his shoulders slumping as if he was trying to curl in on himself. “Sorry,” he whispered, shame lacing his voice.

The mage felt his face soften at the sight before him, a soft ache making itself known in his chest that wasn’t the result of the minor bruises he had sustained in the falling tower of crates. He recalled witnessing this scene many a time before, but usually with smaller children. It made him wonder who did this to this young man, who was positively bursting with questions and unbound curiosity, but had to reign it in and hide once more as if expecting a scolding for his outburst.

“It’s quite alright to ask questions,” Ridge said with a small smile, resting a hand on the crook of the squatter’s arm, drawing those azure eyes back to the mage. “But these questions take many a time to thoroughly discuss, and I must be heading back lest someone will come looking for me.” He suppressed a face at the thought of who exactly would come looking for him, but mentally shook it from his mind as he patted the man’s arm.

“Oh.” The squatter chewed on his lower lip, looking hesitant before peeking over at Ridge. “Will you be back soon?”

Ridge couldn’t help but smile softly at the uncertainty in Xephos’ quiet inquiry. “Yes, as long as you are still here when I return.”

There was the brightness the mage wanted to see; the squatter’s eyes widening as his lips pulled back, exposing pale teeth in the most charming smile he had ever witnessed. “I’m not going anywhere!” Xephos exclaimed. “Although I might be out looking for a job when you swing by, but you’re welcome to stay!”

The mage’s smile only grew at the squatter’s cheerful words, undertone with hope of the man in the frock returning. “You are not angry about the magic,” he couldn’t help but mention as he rose to his feet, suppressing a wince as his skin stretched taunt over bruises. It wasn’t a question, more of a mere observation of one of the squatter’s strange quirks. It was even supported by the violent shaking of the Xephos’ dark head, causing more grit to cascade from the locks and skitter quietly onto the floor.

“No! No, no, I have no problem with magic! I never seen anyone use it before, and I find it fascinating! But no one will tell me anything about it. They just say it’s bad and dangerous but they ever explain _why_!” He let out a frustrated huff, his face becoming pinched at the lack of progress of his search for knowledge.

“Magic is a difficult thing to explain, especially for those who are not trained in the arts,” Ridge explained. “It is an ever evolving, ever complex subject. People naturally fear what they cannot understand, find the logic amongst the chaos. But I will do my best to answer your questions so that you can understand.” His lips quirked into a smile as he raised a finger to his lips. “Just don’t go telling anyone about this, alright?”

Xephos mimicked the motion, a grease-stained finger pressing against his pale lips. “Not a word,” he promised, and the mage had to only take a glance at those azure eyes to know that he was telling the truth.


End file.
